


Just the Little Things

by childoftimemagicandmystery



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 04:09:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1674221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/childoftimemagicandmystery/pseuds/childoftimemagicandmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Reichenbach story of how Sherlock and John find their way back together. Sherlock has been staying at Molly's flat during his several-month-long hiatus. He finally decides to tell the three people closest to his heart that he's alive. When Christmas comes up, after John has moved back into 221B, the whole truth about his Fall is revealed, and old feelings come to light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just the Little Things

A dark figure in a long black coat stood in the shadows in front of the flat 221B, looking up at a second-story window. His black wavy hair blew in the violent wind and he shivered in the cold, his face long and pale and set in determination. No one was around. After staring at the window for roughly an hour with no results, he frowned in disappointment and finally crossed the street and knocked on the door with a gloved hand. A small woman answered the door and dully greeted him, "Hullo, Sherlock." He waited patiently for a minute before a look of realization and surprise came over her face. 

"Sherlock!" she shrieked, rushing forward and hugging his middle tightly. He gave her a small smile and said quickly, 

"Hush now, Mrs. Hudson, I'm supposed to be dead, remember?" She quieted herself and nodded, putting a finger on her lips and smiling to herself. She mumbled his name several times and ushered him inside. After the door was closed she sat down at the little table in the kitchen and Sherlock sat in front of her, a worried look on his face. Mrs. Hudson gave him a sly look and reprimanded him, 

"I ought to slap you, naughty boy. Pretending you were dead and worrying all of us dreadfully." Then she sighed and looked down at her hands. She suddenly looked very anxious and upset and asked him sternly, "Why would you do that to us, Sherlock? I hardly believed it at first, but you never came around to tell us any differently and John left a couple days after you...died. I'm all alone here, no one has moved upstairs, I've told them all it was occupied. I was hoping one of you would turn up." She had worked herself up now so her face was bright red with pent-up frustration.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he told her quietly. She gave an almost maniacal laugh and muttered, "Damn right, you're sorry." Then she seemed to recover some more and slowly eased back into her normal attitude. The apology seemed almost sufficient to please her again. Then he intertwined his fingers and looked at her curiously. 

"You mustn't tell anyone I'm alive. I will tell who I can, but for now, it is better that no one else knows," Sherlock told her seriously. She nodded and responded, 

"Of course, of course. I have no one else to tell, really." He nodded, satisfied, and went on to talk business with her. 

"I'm planning on moving back in here; I can't see myself living anywhere else now," he paused in thought before continuing, "I'll see if I can convince John to come back, too." There was a very pregnant pause as Mrs. Hudson gave him an anxious look and he searched her face for an answer. Then he asked the question he thought she would understand through his hinting. He closed his eyes and asked, "How is John?" She let out a discontent sigh and said, with slight difficulty, 

"He took it very hard, Sherlock, he's not going to get over it very easily. And I can't say what he'll do when he sees you." He nodded, expecting an answer similar to that anyway, and rested his chin on his hands, his eyes still closed in thought. He stood up suddenly after a moment and told her, 

"I'm going out." She stood up and asked desperately, as she had been very lonely, "Well, when are you coming back?" A cynical smile passed his expression as he responded on his way out, 

"Very soon or not at all." 

Sherlock's plan now, of course, was to move his few precious possessions out of Molly's flat and into 221B again. Ever since his 'death', he had been living with Molly, one of the only people who knew he was still alive. Mycroft knew as well, although Sherlock had planned that he wouldn't. Soon after that day, he received a letter where he was living temporarily, saying, 

'I know you're alive, you dimwit. You can't deceive me that easily.' Sherlock had smirked upon reading this, but was also slightly peeved that Mycroft could see through his plan so easily. But then again, he was a Holmes. He had his methods, just as his younger brother did. He hadn't responded, assuming Mycroft was aware he had received it. 

Molly had been very hospitable to him, despite Sherlock's usual routine of waking up ranting at 2 in the morning and trying to sneak body parts into her fridge. She was more vigilant than John with all of this, no doubt having talked to John at length about living with Sherlock whenever it had come up in conversation. He hadn't left the flat very often and Molly wasn't aware he had left it at all. He occasionally took midnight strolls, but being very careful to keep out of sight. 

He certainly had not been idle in the meantime. Sherlock Holmes was working his hardest to catch the snipers Moriarty had hired to shoot his friends in case they were still threats to them. He knew that they were probably no longer a threat, but his paranoia fueled his determination. He was hot on their trail now and was fairly sure he was aware of their identities. 

"Molly?" he asked, when he walked into her flat. She did not respond and he frowned. She should be home by now. It was late. He looked around before deciding she most likely had to work late and settled on a chair in the kitchen. A few minutes later, however, she walked in and announced, 

"Sherlock, I'm back!" 

"I noticed," he said with a dull tone. 

"No need to be snappy with me; I was held up at work." 

"I figured." 

"Would it kill you to sound happy to see me for once?" 

"Maybe." She frowned at him when she walked into the kitchen and looked a bit hurt. 

"Sorry," he muttered, "Thinking." 

"Of course you are," she muttered in response. Sherlock finally looked up at her and said, 

"I'm going out tomorrow." Molly had heard this statement before and quickly refuted it with, 

"No, you're not, you're dead." He rolled his eyes and heaved a huge sigh before standing up and walking around the kitchen, pacing furiously. 

"Yes I am. But really now, I need to start telling people. I can't hide it forever." She snapped her head up and looked at him. Usually her refutation shut down the conversation, but now she realized he really was determined to move on, with a quieter profile. She recognized his expression and asked him quietly, 

"You miss him, don’t you?" He met her gaze and said truthfully, "Yes." She looked down and nodded at her hands, looking a bit disappointed. 

"Yes, I know. I figured you did," she said. He knew how she felt about him still and almost felt bad for her, but he didn't and never would have those feelings for her. She fidgeted with her hands before Sherlock walked over to her and put his hands around hers to stop them. 

"Stop," he said quietly, "I'm sorry, Molly, I really am." He had done a lot of apologizing lately. He didn't like it. He cared about her as a friend and that was it and she needed to know that. He saw her blushing furiously and he released her hands quickly and backed away, going back to his pacing. He understood the implication of living with her for six months now and the last thing he wanted to do was lead her on. 

((()))

Sherlock set out the next day to find John. He had the confrontation all planned out. The only problem was, he had no idea what John's reaction to him would be. So his plan consisted of a very quick explanation before John could do anything. He had borrowed Molly's phone in the morning and texted his friend, "Meet me at 221B at noon sharp. -SH" He hoped that was sufficient enough to draw his friend out into the open. 

Sherlock waited in the upper living room where he and John used to sit together, discussing cases among other topics. Mrs. Hudson was aware he was coming. As noon quickly approached, he became more and more nervous of the meeting. He was even a bit doubtful that John would even come. He knew he would never back down from a challenge, but especially if it involved Sherlock, but his nerves were interfering with his rational thinking. 

He jumped up when he heard a knock on the door downstairs and he heard Mrs. Hudson greeting someone warmly. He closed his eyes and found he was shaking slightly. He heard John's voice floating up the stairs and almost smiled. A faint grin danced across his lips as the step creaked as John ascended the steps. Sherlock's expression was no doubt an amused one when a short man in a tan jumper pushed the door open and stood very still when he saw his dark form dominating the room. John lifted his pointer finger and pointed at Sherlock, a stern, reprimanding expression coming over his face. 

"You...you were dead. How can you be here?" he asked very slowly. 

"I didn't die," the taller man offered his solution. 

"Yes, you did. I felt your pulse...there wasn't one...and you were bleeding out your head and...you were dead," he squeaked out. Sherlock walked towards him and stood directly in front of his friend. 

"Ball under the arm, fake blood, et cetera," Sherlock said gleefully, completely ignorant of John's growing anger. 

"You died. You're not here. It isn't you. It's just a trick," he said, reaching desperately now. 

"Oh come on, John, surely you know now that I faked my death to-" Sherlock didn't get a chance to finish before feeling John's knuckles hit him in the side of the face, obviously full of emotion and very, very hard. He blacked out for about a minute before groggily coming to and saying, "I was expecting that, but you were a little late." When he opened his eyes, he saw John sitting on a chair to the side of him, arms crossed tightly, glaring at him. 

"What possessed you to jump off of a building? To make you think that faking your death was okay?" Sherlock flinched and opened his mouth to answer when John ploughed on, "Was it your pride and you couldn't face the damn media and stand with your head held high? Or was it the fact that you had lost to Moriarty?" 

"No, I-"

"Did you even think about how that affected other people? Your friends, no, you can't deny them now. Lestrade? Mrs. Hudson? Me?" His voice had gone up an octave and Sherlock could hear it break when he referred to himself. 

"John, I-"

"No, you listen to me Sherlock Holmes! I didn't sleep for a week! Everyone was devastated and no one who really cared about you believed what the newspapers were saying about you! Not even Lestrade, Sherlock, he stood up for you! Molly was in tears and-"

"Molly knew," Sherlock cut in, eager to get a part of the conversation, but realized immediately it was the wrong thing to say.

"Oh good, so Molly was in on it, too, was she? That's really helping your case, Sherlock! What the hell is wrong with you?" He was standing now, both of them almost nose to nose. John didn't back down and Sherlock definitely wasn't going to. This wasn't a strange proximity to him as he was always invading John's personal space anyway. His silence implied that it was now Sherlock's turn for an explanation. But now he wasn't quite sure what to say. 

"John."

"What, Sherlock? What could you possibly have to say to me?" 

"I'm sorry." 

"Is that it?"

"No, I-I can't tell you, I-" he trailed off and looked down at his feet, now feeling insecure with his explanation. 

"Fine. Fine. Don't tell me. I'm sure Molly knows all about it, but don't bother telling me, the only one who was actually with you when you-" John backed away and covered his mouth and Sherlock saw fresh tears spring to his eyes, though he knew John was trying to hide it from him. He didn't say anything about it, but continued looking down at his feet in shame. His heart felt heavy in his chest because he knew he'd let John down. Worse than that, he might have lost him as a friend, a companion. What if they could never fix this?

He heard John breathe deeply, trying to compose himself as he turned back around to face Sherlock. He was still looking at his feet and he asked John carefully, "Are you going to stay here?" John raised an eyebrow at him cynically and scoffed. 

"You're an idiot, you know that right?"

"...No?"

"Well you are. Sometimes. Yes, I'm staying, but only because the place I've been living is a complete shack." He glared at Sherlock as if this particular fact was his fault. Sherlock could tell he was part of the reason John had decided to stay and this brightened his mood a bit. His cheek was throbbing from where he had hit him and he finally went into the fridge for some ice. He held it up to his face and gave John a small encouraging smile, but got another harsh glare in return. He rolled his eyes. He had truly thought John would be happy to see him. 

((()))

The next few days were hard on both of them. Sherlock's temper gradually worsened as John shut him out and the more sharp Sherlock got with him, the more John ignored him. Something had to give. Eventually something did. 

"SHERLOCK HOLMES, YOU TAKE THIS HEAD OUT OF THE MICROWAVE RIGHT NOW!" 

"Leave it, it's an experiment!"

"I don't care what it is, move it now!"

"But science, John!" 

"Now!" Sherlock huffed loudly and roughly picked the head out of the microwave.

"For all you know, you could have just prevented me from creating a cure for cancer by making me remove that head, do you know that?"

"Yeah, I'm sure that would have been groundbreaking. I can see the headlines now. 'Sherlock Holmes creates a cure for cancer by exploding dead man's head in microwave'. Real effective, Sherlock." Sherlock moodily shoved the head in a lower drawer in the refrigerator, but it got stuck. He tried pushing it harder, but the head simply squeaked with every time it rubbed up against the side of the drawer. 

"What are you doing?" John asked him, annoyance evident in his tone. 

"I'm trying to put my head back in the...fridge!" he shouted the last word with particular emphasis as he shoved it especially hard into the drawer, resulting in various liquids bursting out the bottom of the neck all over Sherlock's front. Sherlock stiffened, his face an impassible wall of obvious frustration. He lowered the head by his side, still gripping it by the hair and held his hands by his side. In spite of himself, John bit his lip before bursting out laughing, holding himself up by resting his hands on his thighs, leaning over to laugh harder. 

"What...what are you...what's so...John?!" Sherlock stuttered, a bit confused as to why the mess was so funny. "John..?" he tried once more, before letting a smirk dance across his lips. Finally the tension broke and Sherlock started to chuckle as well. The chuckle turned into a loud guffaw as he set the bloodied head down on a paper towel on the counter and couldn't stop grinning for at least as long as his companion was laughing. 

When the two had quite recovered, John looked up at him with a smile and said, "I've missed this." Sherlock returned his smile and said quietly, "So have I." He managed to put the head away safely and changed his shirt. When he came back out, John was typing quietly on his laptop. Sherlock pursed his lips and walked over to him, leaning over his shoulder, faces almost touching. 

"What are you typing?" he demanded in his ear. John jumped slightly, not out of surprise, but rather when he noticed how close his friend was. 

"Blogging," he blurted. 

"About what? I'm dead, remember? Until we sort this out you can't blog about me!" he reprimanded. John turned around, lowering the screen with his hand and telling him with slight annoyance, 

"Other things happen to me than you, Sherlock." Sherlock smirked and said, 

"Sure. So what are you writing? What 'other things besides me' are you writing about?" He raised his eyebrows as he reached around John's shoulders and lifted the screen again. With a flash of annoyance at Sherlock's usual nosy behavior, he quickly turned and shut the lid. 

"Nothing, it's none of your business." Sherlock clicked his tongue in mock disapproval, still smirking as he walked away. John growled softly and kept the lid closed, standing up and going over to his favorite chair to fetch his book. He picked it up to read when Sherlock walked by and plucked it out of his hand. John jumped up and asked angrily now, 

"We've just made up, are you really looking to piss me off again?" Dismissively, the darker man waved his hand at him, looking in the fridge and saying, 

"We don't have any milk." 

"...So what do you want me to do about it?" 

Silence. 

"Oh you want me to go buy some for you?" 

Silence. 

"Is that all I am to you - an errand-runner, the one that keeps this flat sane? I can still leave if I want to. You're bloody lucky I'm here in the first place!" Sherlock looked up at him, a bit of hurt in his eyes. 

"Of course you're not just an errand-runner for me, but I do need some things done. We need milk," he replied calmly. 

"Why don't you get the bloody milk?" 

"Because I'm dead." 

"No you're...Sherlock, that's a lame excuse and you know it," John finished, defeated. He knew a lost battle when he fought one and in spite of himself found himself pulling on a windbreaker and pulling out his wallet. 

It was freezing cold outside and by the time he got back, John was shivering violently and his teeth chattering. He sneezed loudly when he walked into the flat and nearly dropped the milk. 

"What took you so long?" 

"Are you s-s-s-serious? S-Sherlock it's f-freezing and I c-couldn't get a c-cab!" Sherlock tsked and took the milk out of John's frozen hand and put it in the fridge. John put the rest of the groceries away while Sherlock looked down in his microscope. He had just set up his science equipment that afternoon and was back on his own projects. He glanced up at John every so often to see what he was doing. Finally John groaned and collapsed on the couch. 

"Problem?" 

"I think I'm sick." Sherlock furrowed his brow and walked over to his friend. He turned him over and put a hand to his forehead. He was burning up. 

"You're running a high fever," he said flatly, "Sleep it off, that usually helps me." 

"Thanks Doctor," he grumbled moodily, "Very helpful." Sherlock frowned and walked away, awkwardly throwing a blanket over John. 

((()))

John didn't wake up until late afternoon the next day. Sherlock had his eyes fixed on John's laptop screen. He tried to jump up to close the lid or see what he was doing, but his head spun when he stood up and he sat back down with a quiet 'woah'. 

"Don't stand up," Sherlock told him without looking up. 

"Wha-what are you doing?" he asked groggily. 

"Research, now sleep."

"What - why am I so tired? I never sleep this much, even with a cold. It's not healthy."

"I gave you a drug I concocted. I haven't tested it yet, but it's made to cure colds faster. As opposed to two or three days of blatant sickness, it should heal you in a night, but you're taking longer to recover." 

"You tested a drug on me? And you haven't - Sherlock!" He was very nervous now. He trusted Sherlock with - well his life, but an untested drug was dangerous.

"I'm sure it'll work, you'll be fine. I'm a bit concerned you've slept more than you should, but I think you'll be fine." 

"Not okay, Sherlock. Not okay." 

"You'll thank me if you're cured faster, won't you?" 

"Not if I die first."

"Oh you won't die, what did you think I was giving you. At worst there'll be some internal bleeding." John gripped his stomach. 

"What?? "

"John, trust me, there's not a big chance that will happen." 

"But, I-"

"Shut up and sleep." John scowled and gave him as hard a stare as he could muster and eventually drifted back to sleep. Sherlock glanced at him with concern, but he didn't see. 

When John woke up again that evening, Sherlock looked up at him. '

"How do you feel?" 

"So much better," John answered, surprise evident in his voice. 

"Good." John narrowed his eyes at him. 

"Did you really experiment on me?" Sherlock chuckled and said, 

"Not really. I just pumped you up with Benadryl and mixed it with a little chemical to be able to give you more than the dosage. Just a small experiment, doesn't really count." John narrowed his eyes again, but smiled. 

"Okay. Thanks Sherlock." He coughed and blew his nose for the majority of the evening, but he wasn't bedridden anymore. He did feel worlds better and was feeling grudgingly grateful to Sherlock for speeding up the healing process. It was, after all, Christmas in two days. 

((()))

Sherlock went alone to talk to Lestrade the next afternoon. He had written him a note, knowing his friend would recognize the handwriting and be confused and curious enough to show up at the location. He decided to meet him at the hospital in the labs with Molly. He waited in the back, fiddling around on his phone when he heard heavy footsteps approach the room. 

"You should know I have backup in the building in case this is a trap. You're first mistake was calling yourself Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes is de-" he paused as he caught sight of the tall figure in the dark coat. Sherlock walked towards Lestrade and a small smirk danced on his lips. 

"Hello Lestrade," he said bemusedly. Lestrade simply looked him up and down, stuck out a finger, and poked him hard in the chest to make sure he was real. Sherlock leaned back slightly from the poke and then back to normal. 

"You died," he said quietly. 

"Yes, I know, I was there," Sherlock replied. 

"But how can you be here? That's impossible."

"Do have faith in your consulting detective, Lestrade." Once he had appeared to recover and accept the fact that he was, in fact, alive, Lestrade's expression darkened. 

"You do realize how much I want to smack you right now, right?" Sherlock looked down and looked a little sad. 

"Yes, John got here first, though."

"Oh well at least I have the comfort of knowing I'm not the only one you kept in the dark." Lestrade looked very hurt now, which made Sherlock feel bad. 

"I'm sorry, I really am. I had to fake my death." Lestrade crossed his arms aggressively and Sherlock could almost predict the next sentence. 

"So tell me, Sherlock, why did you have to fake your death?"

"I can't tell you."

"And why the hell not?" 

"I just can't...I'm not ready. You're lucky I'm telling you I'm here." Sherlock could see as soon as it was out of his mouth that that was the wrong thing to say. 

"Lucky? I'm lucky? Was I almost not worthy of being close enough to you to learn that you're still alive?"

"I didn't mean...you're…"

"How do you know I'm not going to blab that your alive to the press and the media and have them attack you all over again?" To this, Sherlock knew exactly what to say. 

"Because you're my friend." Lestrade paused, looking down and away before looking back up at him seriously. 

"Yes, yes I am." 

"You can't tell anyone."

"Who do I have to tell, Donavan? Anderson? You do remember they're the ones who wanted to arrest you, not me, right? I did stand up for you and it would just make my job harder by telling them or anyone else that you're alive," he told him. 

"Thank you." Lestrade gave him a small smile and started to leave the room. As he left, he waved behind him and said loudly and only half-joking, "I'm getting real sick of your bullshit, Sherlock!" Sherlock just laughed and left soon after Lestrade had. He made his way back to the flat quickly, not wanting to keep John waiting. 

He nearly walked into John as he threw the door open and saw the flat had been decorated for Christmas and rolled his eyes, throwing himself into a chair. "Christmas," he said, "Overrated." John frowned at him and asked, 

"Can't you pretend to be happy for Christmas for once? You're like the Grinch. Do not 'Bah Humbug' my Christmas, if you please, Sherlock." He finished pinning up the lights and turned to him. "Doesn't it look festive?" It was almost a rhetorical question, but Sherlock answered cynically, "Yes, grand." The only thing missing was a Christmas tree. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and Sherlock had learned that John had invited a select few people to their annual Christmas party, and it was semi-secret, given that only those few people knew of Sherlock's status. 

"Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Harry, Lestrade, me and you," John read off the attendance list. Sherlock nodded and stood up. It was now the mid-afternoon of Christmas Eve. John gave him a look as he appeared that he was going to go disappear into his science experiments again for the day. 

"No, no, no, no, you're not going anywhere," he said as he grabbed Sherlock by the back of the shirt and dragged him to the center of the room. Sherlock turned around quickly to face him and ended up in a closer proximity than he had meant to be. They both held each other's gaze for a bit too long, almost chest to chest and nose to nose. Sherlock heard John's breathing speed up slightly and he inwardly smirked. Outwardly he raised his eyebrows and backed away. Only then was he aware his heart was pounding. He frowned, turning away and then turned back to John awkwardly. 

"I need to go finish sorting my solutes, what do you need?" he said, sounding a little impatient. He was confused by what had just transpired in the last three seconds and that made him edgy. Sherlock hated being confused by anything, especially his own emotions. John coughed, looking away from Sherlock and said, 

"We're going to get a Christmas tree." Sherlock sighed melodramatically and replied,

"I have better things to do. You get the tree."

"Come on, Sherlock. Besides, if you don't think it's perfect like you didn't last year, I don't want to hear you bitching about the circular dimensions of each layer or whatever it is you know about the tree I picked out." 

"No offense, John, but I really don't care about Christmas." Sherlock really did sound slightly apologetic, but he wasn't. He never really cared much for Christmas and he had no interest in going with John to get a tree. 

"No, you're coming. You sit on your ass all day looking at solute samples of something and I do all the errands and whatnot. You are going to come with me and we are going to pick out a tree. You can verbally abuse the other inferior trees if you like, or even the tree-dealer, but you are going to come." Sherlock rolled his eyes again and didn't move until John grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him to the door, pulling on his own jacket and throwing Sherlock's on him. He didn't let go of his wrist until they were out the door, where Sherlock finally seemed to consent to coming. 

They arrived at the spot and John breathed in deeply, giving a happy little sigh. Sherlock looked at him sideways and raised his eyebrows, smirking slightly. He walked in the gate towards the trees and touched each of them softly, feeling the branches. John looked up at him and crossed his arms, smiling slightly, "Go on, Sherlock. Do your stuff. Find the perfect tree." He looked around idly while waiting for his companion to shout for him. 

Sherlock's observant eyes saw everything. He saw the major flaws in the spaces between the branches, the tilts, the dryness of the branches. He found a good one, but the needles were dry as a bone. Despite his earlier arguments, he was a bit OCD about Christmas trees and the perfection of such, and searching for one was fun since he didn't really have anything better to do. Maybe not fun, but interesting at least. 

Sherlock's hand lightly brushed a beautiful green fir that he found to be the very best of the collection. His brow was furrowed as he made his way around it, examining it completely. 

John looked up at the top of a nice fir tree and he looked for any fault Sherlock might be able to find with it. He was satisfied that, to him at least, there wasn't any problem with it. He stuck his hand through the middle to grab the trunk to claim it and was about to call out to Sherlock when he found there was already a hand there. 

"This is my tree, sir, I would ask that you go find another," came a familiar muffled voice from the other side. 

"Sherlock, it's me," John shot back bemusedly, peering around the tree to see him. John's hand was still gripping Sherlock's hand at the middle of the tree. Sherlock looked around the tree at John and said, 

"Well, let go then. My hand is turning blue." John let go of his hand quickly, looking down and away and then back at him and apologized quietly. Sherlock smirked again and called to the tree dealer. 

"Perfect tree, John?" Sherlock asked him. 

"Well, you didn't find anything wrong with it, so I guess not," John replied modestly. 

"I was asking you." 

"I...yeah, I think it's pretty perfect." John smiled at him and Sherlock felt a pang in his chest. He found himself feeling a rush of affection for John, and not entirely platonic to be honest, and almost frowned. Instead he forced a smile on his face and quickly turned around to pay for the tree. 

((()))

Sherlock and John arrived home in the late afternoon, a few hours away from the Christmas party for the night. Sherlock went out immediately after he helped John carry the tree in. He didn't seem to realize he was going and when he heard him leaving, he turned around and looked a little sad when he asked softly, "Where are you going?" 

"Out," Sherlock replied vaguely before turning back around towards the door and leaving quickly. He didn't want John to know what he was doing. He might think he was being sentimental, which he really was, but he didn't want to admit it. 

John turned back sadly towards his Christmas tree and looked at it proudly. His shoulders sank as he thought of Sherlock again. Something had changed in their relationship, something was missing, or something more was there that he hadn't seen before. He was noticing Sherlock more: the curve of his jaw, his majestic cheekbones, his long delicate fingers. He found him beautiful and the love for him now was not platonic anymore. It had grown into much more than that, but he tried to act as though nothing had changed because he knew Sherlock could never return his feelings. It was impossible. 

John walked to his bedroom and reached out under his bed and pulling out the small box that held the presents he had gotten everyone. He had gotten his sister, Harry, a small box of three different kinds of perfume that looked fancy but was actually quite cheap. He bought Mrs. Hudson a pretty little silver necklace with three small bulbs at the bottom. It was the kind of simple elegance she would appreciate. He had gotten Molly and Lestrade books they appeared to be interested in. Lastly, he pulled out the wrapped present for Sherlock. He looked at it uncertainly, turning it over in his hands. He would either appreciate it or think it was useless. 

John had gotten his blog along with Sherlock's website published in such a manner that both of their explanations of each case side by side like a Sparknotes No Fear Shakespeare. It was beautifully bound with a rich black color covered in cursive gold print bearing the title The Science of Deduction along with their names at the bottom. The texture was leather and it was quite a fancy print that John was very proud of. The edges of the pages were reflective gold, which looked rather official. He smiled inwardly at himself, proud of the work he had done to get this done. He just wasn't sure if his best friend would appreciate it. 

((()))

Sherlock came back to the flat with something wrapped in his hands. John looked at him, but his face remained impassive. He set the present under the tree, looking a tad embarrassed before scurrying away to his bedroom. John raised an eyebrow before putting his own presents beneath the tree. He looked at the tag on the present, but it was blank. Who did Sherlock get a present for? He must like them an awful lot to only get them a present and no one else. Maybe it was Molly, he thought, Maybe he noticed her for once and is starting to like her back. His heart sank at the thought, but Sherlock's love life was not his business, nor was it his place to judge who he loved. How should he know anything about it anyway?

((()))

Evening set in at 221B and people started arriving. Molly came in a much more sensible outfit than she had the last time they had had a Christmas party and she was the first to arrive, besides Mrs. Hudson of course. John looked over at Sherlock and caught a small smirk on his face when he first saw Molly. He frowned and looked away, moving away from Sherlock to go help Mrs. Hudson set out the food. When he glanced back at Sherlock he found him frowning at him with a confused expression on his face. He gave him a small halfhearted smile and turned back around. 

Sherlock approached John quietly from behind and put a hand on his shoulder and said, "John." He jumped nearly a foot in the air from surprise as he turned around to see him. 

"What is it, Sherlock?" he snapped with annoyance. Sherlock backed away in surprise at the hostility in John's tone. He frowned at him and replied haughtily, 

"I was just going to say your sister is here, there's no need to get so upset at me." John stared at him for a second before softening his gaze and apologizing once. Sherlock flashed him a small awkward smile and scrutinized him for a second before letting him go greet Harry. She said hello and asked if there was any wine. John smiled sardonically and informed her that there was, but he had put it behind the head in the fridge. Harry frowned and made a disgusted face before replying that she could wait. Sherlock came up next to John and greeted Harry a bit coldly. She returned the same cold greeting and pushed past the both of them. The two looked at each other after a second and grinned the same mad, amused grin. 

The doorbell rang again and John turned around to grab it. Lestrade came in finally and the gathering was complete. Presents were passed around as they waited for dinner to finish. Mrs. Hudson had made a lovely turkey for the main dish and everyone had brought other kinds of food for a potluck. They didn't quite finish unwrapping presents before dinner was ready and they sat down together to eat. Molly tried to make awkward conversation with Sherlock, but as usual it was not going her way. John tried hard not to let this cheer him, but it did. He talked to Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Harry. Harry decided she wanted to antagonize Sherlock after Molly moved on from her conversation with him and started really getting on his nerves. He didn't show it, but John knew when something was really bothering him. 

"I've read John's blog; I think it's all rubbish. I read the newspapers, Sherlock, before your mysterious disappearance. What happened while you were gone anyway?" 

"I was staying at Molly's, Harry, and as you very well know those newspapers were inaccurate. I thought John would have told you before now that I was being framed," he replied haughtily.

"And what exactly were you doing at dear Molly's for months?" She raised an eyebrow at him with an air of a heavy implication. He frowned at her, unable to completely understand what she was trying to imply. John stopped talking, having caught what Harry was trying to say, and looked over at Sherlock. He can't pretend not to have been curious, but he had kept that curiosity well under wraps until now. Molly was still speaking with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and didn't pay much attention to what was going on. 

"I don't...what are you trying to imply?" he asked slowly, frowning at her. 

"Well, what does a man do when he is holed up in a woman's flat for a very long time? One does get bored, does he not? Poor Molly, I do hope you weren't just using her to entertain yourself…" Harry finished nastily. John gave her a hard glare and said warningly, "Harry…" Sherlock frowned before a dawning look came over his face, quickly replaced by one of discontent. He snapped his gaze back to Harry and replied, 

"I resent what you are trying to imply, Harry Watson, I do hope you didn't actually think I would take advantage of Molly like that. She's a friend, and that's it, and I would never hurt her." John nodded, satisfied and was a bit taken aback at Sherlock's more emotionally lenient statement. Normally he would just stick with a 'no'. Perhaps he had gotten closer with Molly over the hiatus though. Molly's head snapped over to them when he said her name and seemed conflicted as to whether to like what he just said or not because he said she was just a friend. She did a small little motion with her head that looked a bit like a bounce and she seemed to decide to take it well. She looked at Harry almost scornfully and took Sherlock's side immediately. Politely, but obviously with a tad of hostility, she told her, 

"Sherlock didn't do anything interesting while he stayed with me, Harry, I can assure you." She gave Sherlock a light-hearted glare and he returned it with an approving nod. Harry scowled at the both of them and asked, 

"Well what's the deal with this Moriarty guy then? He turned up dead, a bullet through his brain! Explain that away, egghead." Egghead was weak, even for Harry, but the question obviously put Sherlock on edge. He looked nervously at John, and then at Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. He glared at her tight-lipped and started to reply, 

"Moriarty was-" but Molly jumped in, trying to help, 

"You leave Sherlock alone, Harriet! He didn't do anything wrong and he saved all of their lives! Moriarty was evil and-and deceitful and-and malicious and he's the only person to blame for this, not Sherlock!" she finished angrily. She was standing now, looking like a mother reprimanding her child. John, Sherlock, and Lestrade all had their mouths hanging slightly open in surprise and Mrs. Hudson was just silently looking on. Harry looked a little surprised, but she smirked soon afterwards in a disdainful kind of way. Mrs. Hudson stood quietly behind her and put a hand on Molly's shoulder and said kindly, 

"You may want to sit down, honey." 

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," she replied quickly, looking quite embarrassed as she sat down quickly. She looked down at her hands, fidgeting with them while once in a while glancing up at Sherlock. The guys closed their mouths soon after this, Lestrade clearing his throat and clearly embarrassed, while John just stared at Molly and tilted his head to the sight inquisitively. Sherlock feared his next question, but John was quick to ask it and there was nothing the former could do to stop him. 

"What do you mean he...saved all our lives?" Molly started to say something, but Sherlock shot her a warning look and silenced her. 

"I think we're all curious, Sherlock, let the girl speak," piped Harry. Sherlock sighed and put a hand on his forehead, not looking at anyone. His eyes flitted to John's, but he looked down quickly when he realized he was staring at him. After a moment of silence, Sherlock lifted his head and said with frustration, 

"You don't understand. None of you do." Harry narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, and started to say snidely, 

"I think we all-" before John cut her off. 

"Harry! I think you need to leave. Now. This is not what I wanted when I invited you and you need to apologize for tonight to everyone." He stood and walked around the table and grabbed her by the elbow to show her out. She pulled her arm away quickly and sneered at him before saying, 

"I don't need you to lead me out, John, I have legs, I can do it myself. I'm sorry to everyone except Sherlock because the bloody nuisance doesn't deserve squat from me." Sherlock simply glared at her all the way out before turning back to his friends and saying, 

"Moving on." But everyone just stared at him. Lestrade looked down and cleared his throat. He looked back up and asked, 

"What did happen though? Really?" Molly saw that Sherlock was now glaring at her and she squeaked, 

"I think I should go too, it's getting late." John walked back to the table and asked, 

"No, why are you leaving? It's all fine, you're fine. That wasn't your fault. I'm sorry for Harriet, really I am." He felt bad that Molly was so embarrassed that she felt the need to leave. 

"No really, John, I should go," she said quietly, before bidding everyone a nervous goodnight and leaving the flat. As the door shut behind her, Lestrade spoke up again, 

"Sherlock, come on, don't be mad at Molly, she stood up for you." He softened his gaze slightly so that now it was simply indifferent as he replied, 

"She said too much. She had no business saying all that. I told her what happened in confidence and in gratitude for her allowing me to stay with her while I was…"

"Hiding," John finished. 

"I wasn't-"

"How else would you put it?" Sherlock pursed his lips and stared at John before putting his head in his hands again. He sighed as Mrs. Hudson mentioned something about grabbing dessert. As Sherlock tried to recuperate, Lestrade and John just gave each other significant looks and Mrs. Hudson brought out the chocolate cake and ice cream. The three ate silently while the cream on Sherlock's plate ever so slowly sank as it melted. Finally Sherlock's head snapped up and he gazed at the cake intently, as if trying to incinerate it. Then he looked up at each person seated at the table and said slowly, 

"I think I owe you all an explanation." He put his hands together and rested his chin on it, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again to look at them all. John wanted to tell him to stop since this was clearly making him really uncomfortable, but at the same time he was very curious to know what really happened. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson looked as though they felt the same conflicted feelings about this. Sherlock waited as though waiting for them to tell him he didn't have to tell them, but no such word was uttered from any of them. 

"I suppose it starts when Moriarty was released from trial, but no one cares about that," he waved his hand dismissively. "The day we went to the roof. I went up to the roof and found him there and we talked. I had failed to figure out the way he opened all three of the top secure places in England, which he reprimanded me for. There was a point where I threatened him then he threatened me and I didn't take him entirely seriously because I thought he didn't have anything to threaten me with...but I was wrong." He whispered the last few words, not looking at any of them now. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson looked confused, but John understood and looked at him with sudden understanding, raising his eyebrows with concern. 

"Moriarty had-he had gunmen trained on you, and you, and you," he pointed at all the others at the table, lingering his finger in John's direction before looking down at his hands on the table again. His ice cream was slush now, and he pushed away the plate in front of him with his long, pale fingers. Sherlock looked up at John again, an expression John had never seen on his face before. He wasn't quite sure what it was and he scrutinized him, furrowing his brow trying to figure it out. He addressed him now personally, 

"When you went rushing back to see if Mrs. Hudson was alright because you thought she got shot, I didn't come because I knew it was a ruse, a trick. I didn't tell you because I knew the Fall was coming and I didn't want you to be there when it happened. It would have put you in danger to be on the roof with me. And I wouldn't have been able to fake my death. The only reason you didn’t know I was alive was because you didn't watch me hit the ground." John gave a small, 

"Oh." Then he looked at Sherlock in distress and said, "I'm sorry I called you a-a machine. I thought you really didn't care if Mrs. Hudson was dying." Mrs. Hudson looked down at her hands and asked, 

"It was that workman at the flat next to ours wasn't it? The one who was so lovely to me? I made him tea!" she finished angrily, as if that was the problem. Then Lestrade asked, 

"What do I have to do with it?" Sherlock glanced at him and said,

"You're my friend. He knew that. He threatened you. Most likely someone at your office." Lestrade growled something about doing an in-office check, but then John asked, 

"What about me? I was completely alone." 

"Sniper."

"Is it that easy for you?" he asked angrily. 

"Is what easy for me?" Sherlock replied to his best friend, not understanding the hurt in his tone. 

"To just know what might have happened to us? Why didn't you warn us, we're all perfectly capable?" Sherlock frowned at him. 

"What? I-do you really think Moriarty would have left you alone? There was no way on earth you all would have been able to get away and he wouldn't let me make those calls. No, they would have followed you and you would have had no idea." He leaned over to John and sneered, "I jumped off that roof for you, you know, and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Does that mean anything to you, John Watson?" John could now hear that he had hurt Sherlock with his question. 

"I only meant...we could have done something and you wouldn't have needed to...the emotional stress, we were all destroyed...you…" he stammered. Sherlock stood up and looked at him coldly, his heart pounding with emotion, but he wasn't listening to it. He knew now where he stood and his sacrifice meant nothing to any of them. 

"It wasn't. That. Easy," he finished, before striding to the door, pulling on his black coat and leaving 221B. 

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called, but he was already gone. He sighed and looked at John. 

"He's right, you know. There wasn't anything we could have done, John, not in that amount of time. Moriarty was a criminal genius and even if we had somehow all three escaped the hit men, he would have gotten us all in the end to get to Sherlock," he told them. Mrs. Hudson looked at them both and said, 

"Yes. Yes, he did save us, whether we like it or not. Personally, I'm very appreciative." Her face colored as she looked at them angrily, "I appreciate what he did for us, even if you two don't. Boys." She finished strongly before getting up to go after Sherlock. They heard her calling into the night, but he was probably long gone. John hung his head in shame of what he had said to him. Sherlock was a hero. And then he had been brave enough to tell them that he cared. 

Lestrade put on his coat and announced he was leaving. John and Mrs. Hudson bid him goodnight and gave him the remainder of unopened presents for him. Mrs. Hudson cleaned up as John brooded silently in his chair. He loved Sherlock, there was no doubt in his mind, especially not now, but what could he do now? He had hurt him. What did that tell Sherlock about how he felt about him? He had to fix this soon. 

John stood suddenly and announced that he was going out to find Sherlock. Most wouldn't know where to find him when he went off to sulk, but John knew where to look. He walked a couple of blocks before finding the spot he was looking for. It was a small green area with a bench and two trees. Sure enough, Sherlock was sitting on the bench under them. He walked towards him and felt his friend's stare as he settled down next to him. He looked up at the stars. 

"Beautiful night," he started. 

"Yes," replied Sherlock. 

"I'm sorry about...about what I said back there. I was hurt and I didn't tell you how much I appreciate what you did for us. That was a huge responsibility to be put on your shoulders and I'm sure it was just as taxing on you as it was on us. I didn't...realize…" he trailed off, not sure where he was going with that sentence. His heart was pounding and he wanted nothing more than to lean on Sherlock's shoulder and fall asleep, comfortable next to someone he loved and trusted. 

Sherlock looked down at him, his heart also pounding and neither of them realizing that they were sparking the same reaction in each other. 

"I'm sorry, too," he said after clearing his throat, "I didn't know how and when to tell you I wasn't dead and I was scared of how you'd react. You did clip me pretty well the other day." He chuckled slightly as he lifted up his chin to shine the lamplight on the bruise just below his cheekbone. John swallowed nervously as he told him, 

"You are a hero, Sherlock, no matter what anyone else says." 

"Oh yes, I know how you feel about that. I heard your speech to my headstone. Very touching." John blushed furiously, thankful for the cover of darkness.

"Oh you heard that, did you? Prat…" he said lightheartedly. 

"Idiot."

"Dick."

"Imbecile."

"Idiot."

"I used that one, you can't use it," chuckled Sherlock. 

"Too bad, 'cos you are one," John started to laugh back. 

"There's also something else I didn't tell you," Sherlock said, all laughter gone and a serious look on his face. John looked up at him with concern. 

"What is it, what's wrong?" 

"While I was at Molly's, I was thinking. About what I want." John frowned at him in confusion. 

"How do you mean?" Sherlock tried to give him a knowing look. 

"About who I want." John still didn't understand. 

"I...I don't…"

"I came to a realization about who I love, John," Sherlock said quickly. John sat patiently and swung his legs back and forth like a child on a swing, waiting for him to finish his sentence. 

"And...who would that be?" 

"Surely it's obvious!" 

"Ah...nope, nope, but when is anything you think ever obvious to me?" Sherlock looked pained, as though he didn't really want to spell it out, but he desperately wanted his friend to understand. 

"What, is it Molly?" Sherlock's gaze snapped to his with obvious surprise. 

"No, of course not." He stood, shifting from one foot to the other in front of John in a little dance, as if deciding to do something. His hands were in his pockets and he breathed out shakily like he was trying to keep his composure. John finally stood and put a hand on his arm gently to make him stop dancing around. 

"You know I'll listen to whatever you have to say and I'll accept whatever you tell me," John told him quietly. Sherlock looked down at him again, looking deep in John's grey-blue eyes as if trying to decipher something. He looked incredibly pained, like what he was about to say would hurt him to say. 

"It's you," he said shakily. 

"What's me?" John was starting to understand, but the immense doubt he had in his heart made it hard for him to comprehend. 

"You know very well what," Sherlock snapped. "What we were just talking about!" 

"Oh," he breathed, looking up at his friend. 

"And I didn't want to say anything because I didn't know if you felt the same way and-"

"So why did you tell me today? What changed?" 

"You came after me." 

"I what?"

"After dinner and you'd thought you'd hurt my feelings, you came out here and sought me out to tell me you were sorry. I thought perhaps...maybe you do, but I'm still not…"

"Sherlock…" John's soft tone almost scared Sherlock. He sounded so vulnerable, so weak. But he could also hear the emotion behind the word, behind the name, his name. His brother's voice rang in his ear. Caring is not an advantage, but he refused to listen for once. This was different. He looked at John, into those grey-blue eyes he had grown to love so much, when John put a hand on his scarf to pull his face nearer and kissed him. 

Sherlock and John alike were surprised by the kiss, but the moment their lips touched was like no kiss they had ever had before. It was soft and it was caring and full of pent-up emotion. But it was slow and steady, the way each preferred at that moment. It took Sherlock a moment to fully register what was going on before he wrapped his arms around John's waist to pull him closer. Now their hearts were beating in unison, together, as a team, as it should be. John kept hold of his scarf, being careful not to choke him by pulling it too hard. 

The embrace could have lasted a few seconds or a lifetime, but they had broken some unspoken barrier between themselves now and there was no going back. But that was okay with them. When they separated, John sighed with relief and hugged Sherlock tightly, resting his chin on his shoulder. He didn't get to hug the man often, although he suspected more now than before, but when he did it was the equivalent of hugging a giant teddy bear to him. Not because Sherlock was fluffy, but the comfort involved in doing it made him feel so happy and safe. Sherlock smiled when he hugged him, knowing now that things at 221B would be different, but it would be a change for the better. 

And not much would change. Just the little things. 

Sherlock had a noticeable new spring in his step when they walked back to the flat together. John's fingers were laced with his and they flew up the stairs to the upstairs flat. Out of the corner of his eye, John spotted two solitary presents still sitting under the Christmas tree. 

"Hey, did somebody forget these?" he asked, pulling them out from under the tree. One was his to Sherlock and the other was the one Sherlock had left blank, not sure who it was for. He blushed when he handed Sherlock the present from him and then asked, "Who was this for?" 

"Guess," Sherlock said. 

"Well I'm the only one still here, so I'm going to guess it's for me." 

"Good guess," Sherlock snickered lightly. They both settled on the couch behind them and put their presents on the coffee table across from it. 

"You go first," John said to his flatmate. 

"Alright then." Sherlock carefully unwrapped the green paper from the black book and he grinned when he recognized the title. He flipped through it gleefully with a finger and nodded with approval. "Thank you, John." 

"Hang on, now it's not finished. You need to finish it." John smirked and put out his hand for the book. He handed it to him and he flipped to about the middle. He handed the open page back to Sherlock with a nervous smile. Sherlock frowned when he saw it, but he understood. 

"It began with the Reichenbach mystery. I kept blogging, but you stopped and then when you disappeared I couldn't finish it, because I blogged up until the day you died." Sherlock's expression was one of grief, then anger, then peacefulness. Not because he felt anger for John, but at Moriarty and what he had done to his friends. 

"Of course, I'll fill in those bits. But why are the rest of the pages empty?" 

"To fill them in with our new adventures, of course!" John was surprised Sherlock didn't understand, "Surely the most observant man in the world figured that out. When we start doing new cases, of course you'll have to adopt a pen name or something, we can fill in the book." Sherlock smirked sideways at him. 

"Nice idea, John, I like it. Thank you." John nodded with a smile and then looked at his own present. What would Sherlock have gotten him? He unwrapped the present and stared at it for a minute before turning to Sherlock. 

"How did you...you couldn't have...I….how do you…?" Sherlock smirked at him and said simply, 

"I'm special, that's how." 

John looked up at the ceiling; something hanging there had been lightly swaying in the breeze for the past ten minutes that was annoying him. He smiled when he recognized it. 

"Mistletoe." Sherlock looked up. 

"Yes, that would seem to be the case." John knew exactly who the culprit was for that. 

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called. All they heard in response was a cackle from the kitchen and they both smiled appreciatively. 

"She knew, she always knew it was going to be me and you," John chuckled lightheartedly. 

"Ah yes, Mrs. Hudson. 221B's wild card, always has been," Sherlock replied appreciatively. 

And with that, the two leaned forward again and for the second time that night, their lips met and they were happy, truly happy. It's just the little things that do that.


End file.
